The Pulp Fiction Megapack

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  “Turn back?” he blankly repeated. “But I’m famished. I’m all in. I was prepared to meet Death when you came.”

  “You were never nearer to it,” she muttered, staring intently at the swamp cedars. “When unmuzzled, one of the dogs would be more than a match for any three men. Of course if you’re unable to travel—”

  “I’m not,” he abruptly cut in. “Who owns the dogs? Why are the devils allowed to run loose?”

  “They belong to old Cumber, my uncle’s servant,” she explained. “You’ve never heard of them?”

  “Only in ghost stories. My name is Bruce Dix. I was camping with friends on Caribou Lake. Tried to cruise back alone from Clear River a few days ago. Lost my compass, lost my way. I’ve not eaten for hours. Began seeing things. Thought the dogs were imagination till they leaped on me.”

  She listened gravely and in turn informed, “I’m Florence Dessel. Andrew Dessel, my uncle, has a cabin on the lake. We came here for his health. He has grown worse and will never return home alive.”

  “I’m mighty sorry to hear it,” consoled Dix. “Of course, you can’t take in wanderers. I’ll turn back and make it somehow.”

  “You mustn’t attempt it till we’ve outfitted you with supplies and a compass. You must stay with us tonight and start back tomorrow.”

  He staggered to his feet, found strength in her level gaze, and asked, “Can’t your uncle be moved to some settlement? I will return with my friends and get him.”

  “That’s good of you, but he would never stand the trip out,” she sighed.

  “But should he die—what about you?” he demanded.

  She shook her head despondently. “I don’t know. I should be alone then except for old Cumber—and the dogs. He is deranged, I fear. He’s been in uncle’s service for years and always faithful. He’s changed sadly the last few months, but I suppose I could depend on him to take me to the settlement.”

  “Good heavens, Miss Dessel! There must be no guesswork,” he cried. “Don’t you realize winter will soon be here? I shall come back with my friends and guides and make a camp till you can return with us.”

  “The snow will be terrible,” she admitted. “But I’ve been so worried about uncle I haven’t had time to think of myself. Of course, Cumber would take me out safely. He’s a good woodsman.”

  “If he’s deranged you can’t tell what he’ll do,” he objected. “What makes you think he’s unbalanced?”

  “The dogs.” She shivered in saying it. “We had been here some two months when suddenly he disappeared. We took it for granted he had deserted us; then, after an absence of five or six weeks, he returned with them. He imagines we’re in danger from the outside world. He lets the brutes run the woods unmuzzled at night to guard us from the supposed danger. Which reminds me, we must be going.”

  “The dogs loose at night reminds you?” he inquired.

  “It’s unsafe for anyone but him to be abroad after dark,” she simply explained. “No time for talk now. We’ll finish our plans tonight.”

  “Our plans for getting you back to civilization,” he grimly appended.

  “It seems cruel to anticipate my uncle’s death while making arrangements for my comfort.”

  “It would be hideously wrong to leave your safety to chance,” he warmly insisted. Before he could say more she suddenly clutched his wrist and urged him after her down the slope, her eyes wide with fear as she cried:

  “Hurry, hurry. I fear Cumber has loosed the dogs!”

  “Knowing you’re out?” he exclaimed.

  “He’s forgotten. Remember he is weak-witted. Hark!”

  A deep-throated baying sounded through the thickening gloom, the chorus entering its full swing with a tempo that could emanate only from wildlife suddenly set free and rejoicing. “He started to take them to the hovel,” she called over her shoulder as she took the lead in a narrow, winding path. “But he forgot. He’s obeying his one obsession, his nightly habit. They’re running unmuzzled.”

  “They’re between us and the house,” he protested, slackening his pace.

  “We’ve time if we hurry. Don’t talk,” she sharply commanded.

  He doubted it, for they were heading straight for the bellowing clamor. But pride kept him close to her heels. “Unless the house is very near—” he began.

  “I’m making for a boat,” she informed, now running swiftly and lightly.

  A gray blur of water opened to their view even as she spoke. On their right and drawing nearer with unnerving rapidity rose the hunting cry of the dogs. But already the girl was splashing through the mud and reeds and was pushing off a crudely constructed flat-bottomed boat. “Jump in!” was her staccato command.

  He gently lifted her aboard and with a push of the paddle sent the frail craft gliding from the shore. As he dropped in the stern and began sculling, the dogs burst into view, jaws free and exulting. On discovering their quarry had escaped they made fierce whining noises and ran up and down the shore. The leader even jumped into the water and swam a short distance after the boat.

  “The cabin is on the knoll to the right,” informed the girl. “The dogs will try to head us off, but we’ll have time enough, as they’ll make a wide detour to pass round a morass.”

  “He unmuzzled them knowing it might mean death for us,” raged Dix.

  “He’s not responsible,” she reminded, picking up the second paddle. “We’ll soon be indoors and the dogs will lose interest in us. Then to plan your escape back to civilization.”

  “Escape?” he muttered. “To be sure. I had forgotten I must use finesse in quitting here.”

  “Faster! The dogs are swinging in,” she warned.

  Dix made sure the heavy door of the long, low structure was fast behind him before searching the shadows of the room. Then a seed of light budded and blossomed and he beheld her standing by a lamp, her profile that of a child if not for the heavy shadow sorrow had laid upon it.

  Outside the dogs were making the night hideous, while the harsh voice of old Cumber occasionally roared some order. As Dix leaned against the door, striving to coordinate his thoughts, the girl threw some pine-knots on the hearth of the huge fireplace and set them to blazing. Warmth and light filled the place, and if not for the dogs and the girl’s melancholy mien Dix would have pronounced the retreat most comfortable. For the cold rain was now beating steadily on the roof and the coziness of the open fire suggested confidences.

  “Please step in here to see uncle while I get you something to eat,” she listlessly invited.

  He furtively studied her small face as he advanced. It was her slight stature that had induced him to think of her as a mere child.

  A glimpse of the misery in her wide eyes bespoke the woman who had suffered not a little.

  “Who is it, Florence?” called a weak voice from an adjoining room.

  She lighted a candle and passed into the room, announcing, “Mr. Bruce Dix, of the city, lost his way and here for the night, Uncle.”

  Dix gazed in pity at the sunken face of the sick man. In the prime he must have presented a fine figure of a man, but now he was woefully emaciated. Only his eyes seemed alive and in the feeble light of the candle they glowed like coals.

  The man nodded to Dix and motioned him to approach closer. At the same time the girl glided to the door, saying, “He’ll talk with you while I’m preparing your supper, Uncle.”

  She had barely crossed the threshold before the sick man had seized Dix’s hand, scanned him with burning gaze, and then whispered, “You look clean and honest. Thank God for that! Hush! Did Cumber come in?”

  “He’s outside,” soothed Dix. “Your servant—”

  “Servant!” bitterly interrupted Dessel, his wasted features grimacing. “Master is the better word. The girl and I are his prisoners. It doesn’t matter about me as my time is short. But it’s eating my soul out to think of her being left.”

  “Prisoners?” gasped Dix.

  “Softly. She doesn’t know
the worst. She doesn’t know he believes he must keep us here. He believes evil awaits us if we return to civilization. That’s why he got the dogs, to keep us here—to keep others out.”

  “It’s damnable!” gritted Dix.

  “He mustn’t find you talking with me,” hurriedly whispered Dessel, half rising. “I didn’t suspect the truth till too late. You must take my niece out to the nearest settlement.”

  “She worries about you more than about herself,” said Dix.

  “She doesn’t realize the danger,” muttered Dessel. “Cumber will not go out for provisions. Once the snow comes and buries this part of the world—it means starvation!”

  “I leave tomorrow to bring help,”

  “No, no,” huskily protested Dessel. “I shall not last till you return. Once I’m gone no knowing what insane freak old Cumber will take. You must stay till the end and somehow manage to take her with you. Promise me as you’re a man you’ll stand by her.”

  “By all that’s good in the world I promise,” solemnly assured Dix.

  “You’ve made it easier for me,” sighed Dessel, closing his eyes. “You must get a good start with the boat while Cumber sleeps. Pass through Little Purgatory. This rain will flood all the swamps south of it. You can go for miles and miles in the boat. It’ll be a hard rub, a good seventy-five miles if you go south. If you strike west to hit the traveled trail between Caribou Lake and Clear River, it means fifty miles and you can’t use the boats except in crossing the lake. I fear Cumber would follow you with the dogs if you took that course.”

  “She shall get through safely. If you could hold out for a while—”

  “Sh-h-h!” cautioned Dessel, his eyes flying open. “Leave me. Quick!”

  Dix glided back to the living-room and had scarcely seated himself before the blaze than the door opened and Cumber entered. He slowly advanced to the fire, his frowning gaze never leaving the newcomer’s pale face. “What do you want here?” was his abrupt query.

  “Food, rest. I lost my way,” replied Dix, fearful lest the madman spring upon him.

  The deep set eyes leered at him mockingly. “You were pretty near this place before losing your way. You were aiming in this direction.”

  Dix patiently explained his experience in wandering from the Caribou trail, but even as he spoke he knew old Cumber’s thoughts were not following the recital. He was wandering among suspicions, dallying with half-formed plans, cunningly arranging plots, all of which were hostile and deadly to the stranger. As Dix concluded, Cumber wheeled and glared at the candle in the sick room. “Who took that in there?” he demanded.

  “The young lady.”

  He snarled in his thick beard, sprang into the room and blew out the candle. On returning to the living-room he all but closed Dessel’s door. Then his mood lighted up with some fierce joviality which caused him to rub his hairy hands and chuckle deep in his throat. Dix decided it was the baying of the dogs, for their master was cocking his head as though weighing the individual notes and appraising the total effect.

  “Brave, brave voices,” he gleefully cried. “And they are hungry.”

  “Why do you have them here?” boldly asked Dix.

  Cumber stealthily gave him the tail of his eye and readily explained, “To haul the sled in winter. They’ll make a brave team.”

  “Great scheme,” endorsed Dix. “And you made the sled?”

  To his surprise Cumber motioned him to follow and led the way through the kitchen, where the girl was busy with coffee making. Opening a door to a shed Cumber proudly pointed. Sure enough he had a sled, a long, narrow affair, homemade yet serviceable and built along the lines of the travois sled of the woodsmen. Only unlike the travois, it was boxed in like a sleigh, the back being unusually high.

  “One could ride very comfortably in that,” approved Dix, noting how the runners had been shod with iron.

  “Aye. And ride far,” muttered Cumber, turning away.

  “There is room for but one,” added Dix.

  “Only one,” agreed Cumber, snapping his finger joints excitedly. “It will travel smoothly. Nothing at all for my pets to haul. I used the hoops of the kerosene barrel on the runners.”

  “You may have your supper now, Mr. Dix,” the girl called out with a touch of nervousness in her voice. “Cumber, your supper is by the stove.”

  As Dix entered the kitchen she passed into the living-room with a tray of food and a pot of coffee. He admired her courage in holding the old man to his plane of servant and wondered if she sensed his status, that of master. Cumber bestowed a flaming look upon them, hesitated for a moment, then rushed to the small table and fell to eating like some ferocious, half-starved animal.

  * * * *

  Dix, faint for need of food, lost no time in assailing the tray. From his place by the fireplace he could observe Cumber snapping and bolting his meat and bread. And as he watched him he likened him to one of the howling brutes outside. The girl passed to her uncle’s room, carrying some steaming drink.

  When she returned Dix asked, “Do you never eat?”

  “Not now,” she murmured. “By and by, perhaps. He is worse tonight.”

  “Miss Dessel, you must be brave. He is a very sick man. He is living on borrowed time. Even were he in town no physician could help him.”

  Tears welled to her eyes and her chin quivered although she fought bravely to control her emotion. To divert her thoughts Dix asked, “What is the meaning of the sled?”

  “One of his fancies. When in his black moods he rambles much about going far away to a strange country.”

  “Apparently he plans to go alone.”

  “Possibly. Yet he has skates ready to use besides the sled. He was sharpening them only a few days ago. One could ride in the sled, one could skate—” She paused with a glimmer of horror in her eyes, and whispered, “Why, he must be planning to take me!”

  “Good heavens, child,” he whispered. “Haven’t you given any thought to the future?”

  “I suppose so. But not much,” was the spiritless reply. “It has worried uncle, though. He just told me to talk with you. You start back tomorrow?”

  “I remain here,” he firmly replied. “It would be a crime to desert you. It is your uncle’s wish that I stay.”

  There was no doubting the relief and sense of security his words had given her; her face mirrored it and her eyes thanked him warmly. “Now I shall feel safe,” she murmured.

  Both were silent till he had finished his meal, when he said, “Listen to the rain.”

  The wind was driving it in sheets against the small window. The dogs had fled to the refuge of the hovel. “If this keeps up the whole country will be flooded.” He added, “So much the better for us.”

  She knew he was planning to use the boat. It seemed wrong to concert their own safety while no early aid could benefit her uncle; yet reason and common sense assured her it was right. She rose and passed to the window and blinked into the blackness. Her little startled exclamation brought him to her side to peer over her shoulder. A light was mistily bobbing along the shore.

  “What is he doing?” she puzzled, as, in a lull of the storm, they heard the sound of blows and the breaking of timbers.

  He stepped to the door and opened it a trifle. When he returned to her his face was pinched and haggard. “He’s destroyed the boat,” he informed.

  She heard him in stony silence, the hand clutching the simple window curtain straining till the muslin parted in shreds. “We must know the worst,” he hoarsely continued. “Unless we can escape to high ground this flood will maroon us.”

  “We’re surrounded by the swamp,” she dully discouraged. “By morning this knoll will be an island. We three in here; Cumber and the dogs outside.”

  * * * *

  For three days the torrential downpour continued till the pools and the lakes of the Purgatory country were merged in one far stretching sheet of black water. Then overnight the skies cleared, the frost swept down from the nor
th and the people on the knoll awoke in a new world.

  It was on the morning of the fourth day of the cold wave that Mr. Dessel dropped into his last sleep.

  Once old Cumber understood his master had gone he withdrew with his dogs to the farther side of the knoll and remained until nightfall. This left Dix alone to fashion a coffin and dig a shallow grave in the frozen ground. Dry-eyed and silent the girl watched him line the grave with spruce boughs and heard him repeat the service for the dead. After doing his duty by the deceased he led her through the edge of night to the cabin and sought to comfort her, promising that once back in civilization he would send men to remove the remains. On entering the living-room she seated herself by the fire and for a long time remained silent.

  “It’s bitter cold out,” he said, standing by her side and gently patting her shoulder. “And you have been very brave.”

  “The ice thickens fast in the lake,” she murmured. Suddenly lifting her head and meeting his pitying gaze she whispered, “Don’t think I fail in appreciation. You have been good to me. What could I have done without you, what—” Unable to continue, she wept for the first time since her uncle’s death.

  * * * *

  He was wise enough not to interrupt this display of emotion and simply stood by her side, patting her shoulder. Gradually her sobs ceased and she said, “I won’t be weak again.”

  “Don’t try to suppress anything, little woman,” he gently soothed.

  She clasped his hand, then clutched it fiercely as a sharp report echoed through the darkness outside, smiting their ears through the frosty air like the crack of a whip.

  “What was that?” cried Dix, releasing his hand and darting to the window.

  “Cumber shooting small game for the dogs,” she explained. “It made my nerves jump.”

  “Then he has a weapon?” whispered Dix.

  At first the full significance of his tone and query did not register. She stared at him questioningly for a moment; then her face flushed and she lamented, “I should have told you. Yes; he has a rifle. I know what you fear and it was criminal in me not to think to tell you.”

  “We’ll fear nothing,” he mumbled, yet gnawing his lips. “If I had known—”